


A Woman Is Herself

by elareine



Category: Lady Sherlock Series (Thomas), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon relationships mentioned - Freeform, Character Study, F/M, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 16:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine
Summary: When she was eleven, Joanna dreamed of being an adventuress.





	A Woman Is Herself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [language_escapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to prettylittlepliers and smallhobbit for the beta! 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of misogyny, sexual harassment, sex work and childbirth. Canon minor character death.

Eleven

When her grandfather came to live with them one summer, she was ecstatic. Harry Morstan was a kind man and, more importantly, always ready to tell her stories. 

“Of course I couldn’t just let that insult stand,” he would say, smiling down at his excited audience from his favorite armchair close to the fire. 

“So you challenged him to a duel?” Joanna asked, almost breathless with tension despite knowing the answer. 

Her grandfather nodded. “Of course! We chose our seconds - mine was Henry Lavinger, your mother might remember him - a very good and old friend, may God have mercy on his soul in heaven… Where was I?” 

“You challenged him to a duel and chose your second.” Joanna was trying very hard not to fidget. Her mother was quietly doing her needlework in the background (as Joanna was supposed to do, now that she thought about it) and wouldn’t hesitate to reprimand her. 

“Yes, that was it, thank you. Well, we met on the Pont Neuf bridge - right on top of the Seine - at sunrise the next day. He was quick to go on the offense, but I used this technique - it has a French name, but it works just so…”

He demonstrated with a poker that had been innocently leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. Joanna sat and watched with rapt attention. 

 

She was still thinking about it when she went to feed the chickens the next morning. Grandfather standing there, next to the river in Paris, fighting a duel for his honour… it was unbelievably romantic and daring! How dashing he must have looked… 

She imagined a rapier in her hand, pointing it at her imaginary opponent (tall and sinister, of course, twirling his mustache) and flicking her hand just so, just like grandpa yesterday, lunging forward… 

A few chickens hastened away in alarm, ruining the illusion. 

“Now, who did you just stab in the heart?” 

She whirled around. “Grandpa! Don’t surprise me like that.” 

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to.” He bowed dramatically, and she laughed. “Now, who was it?” 

“A villain insulted my honour,” she told him earnestly, “So I had to stab him.” 

“Well, I’d say you’d have achieved your purpose with that move. That lunge was quite good for a beginner, too. Maybe I should teach you.” He chuckled, clearly meaning it as a joke.

But Joanna asked: “Can’t you, grandpa? Teach me?” She made her eyes as pleading as she knew how. “Please?” 

Her grandfather thought about it. “Really, I don’t see why not… as long as we don’t make a fuss about it…” 

Joanna only made it through the ensuing silence with all the willpower available to her at her young age. 

“I’ll talk to your father,” he finally promised. “Be good and finish feeding those poor chickens in the meantime, my dear.” 

Joanna did so with all due speed and then raced after him into their little house. She did make herself slow down and open the front door very carefully, not wanting to announce her presence too overtly. She could hear voices from the kitchen. Unlike usual, this time of day, the door was closed, but that wasn’t about to stop Joanna. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be crouching down in front of the keyhole, but she couldn’t help it. This was too important. Her, learning to fence! It would be a first step towards being a real, proper adventuress like Lola Montez.

However, her excitement dimmed somewhat as she started listening. 

Alarmingly, her father was saying, “What does she need to learn fencing for? Not that I don’t admire your enterprises, sir.” He was addressing her grandfather now, Joanna thought, in that overly formal tone he used when he suspected he might have accidentally caused offence. It happened a lot when their vicar paid them a visit. “But we have got no use for that here.” 

“I agree it won’t help her find a husband or care for the animals,” her grandfather, “but there’s more to life than that.”

“Hmm. What do you think, eh, Mary?” her father asked. 

“It might do her good,” her mother answered unexpectedly. “Full of energy, she is, and growing up real pretty.” 

Joanna’s father grunted. 

“It’s not vanity if it is true,” she insisted. “Our Joanna will turn heads one day. I’d rather she knows how to fend off unwanted attention.” 

This time it was her grandfather who objected, at least in a way: “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of teaching her how to brawl on the street. But a little training in proper dueling etiquette and basic technique won’t harm her. And it would improve her posture.” 

That seemed to settle it for her parents. “Very well, go ahead and teach her.”

Joanna barely suppressed a scream of joy at the news. She was going to become a swordswoman! Well, not really, but a fencer! 

Bouncing away to yell her joy at the chickens, she didn’t hear her father say: “But see to it that she doesn’t get any notions in her head, alright? No talking about competitions or attending your school. I’ll have my girl reared proper, I will.”

 

Seventeen

Her parents were dead and Alfred Stockton was proposing to her. It was all a bit much to take in. He was almost thirty years older than her, the local solicitor and a widower with no sons and a young daughter. 

He was looking at her expectantly now. 

She imagined Lola Montez getting a proposal from an unwanted suitor, and sounded gentle but firm as she replied: “You’re very kind, Mr Stockton, and I’m honoured.” 

His answering smile looked a bit pained. “But?” 

Stand straight like the Empress of China, sound firm like the Empress of Britain. 

“But I’m afraid I can’t make this decision so soon after my parents’ passing.” 

“My dear child, surely you must realize that there isn’t…” 

_There isn’t any money for you_ , he tactfully didn’t say. _You have no time left to decide_.

Joanna knew that. But still. “I’m sorry, Mr Stockton. I only just buried them. Would you give me the night to decide?” 

Mr Stockton nodded. “Of course. I await your answer, Miss Redmayne. Don’t worry, I will see myself out.”

“Thank you, and goodnight, Mr Stockton.” 

“Good night, Miss Redmayne.”

He had looked so sure of himself when she requested more time. It wasn’t that she thought his motives despicable. It wasn’t only kindness to her plight. She didn’t kid herself that he would have proposed if she were ugly. But she was attractive, she knew, and he sincerely liked her, but still, she felt she was way too young for this decision. (And for him, for that matter.) 

With a sigh, she sat down on the chair that previously had been her father’s domain. With that exhale of air, some of the tension bled out of her, and with that the tears came. Her fundamentally decent father and mother, both hard-working farmers all their lives, had died in an epidemic. It had been sudden - so sudden that they hadn’t made a will, and now their farm went to a cousin she hadn’t spoken to in years and who wanted nothing to do with her. 

Joanna was essentially home- and penniless. 

She was still sobbing when she heard a light voice call out, “Joanna?” 

Joanna didn’t want to be seen, not like this, but before she could dry her tears or hide, her next door neighbour, Annie Blake, entered. 

“Joanna? I just came to ask… Oh, no!” Seeing her tears, Annie hastened to her side. “Oh no, don’t cry. I’m sure they’re in a much better place now.” 

“I’m sure they are,” Joanna said, a bit indignant at this perceived slight of her parents’ goodness, “I just… don’t know what to do now.” 

Annie knelt down in front of her and took her hands, looking at her earnestly. “Isn’t there someone to take care of you?” 

Annie, Joanna knew, was her age and newly married, and reasonably happily so. “Mr Stockton just proposed to me.” 

“I can’t picture you as a solicitor’s wife,” Annie blurted out, immediately looking mortified. Joanna, however, hiccuped a laugh. 

“Neither can I!” 

Annie smiled at her encouragingly, though her cheeks were still tinted red. “What do you want to do?” 

That was an easy question. “I want to be on stage. In London.” 

An easy question, but an answer that was usually met with ridicule (What notions the girl had! Above herself, she was!) or disgust (Everyone knew that actresses were no better than they ought to be).

However, Annie just squeezed her hands encouragingly, and Joanna remembered that they had always got along well in school. 

“I’m good at it,” she explained. “Acting, I mean. I’ve been reading up on it and everything.” 

“And you have the looks, too, and talent, I should say.” There was nothing of the cat in Annie. 

“Thank you.” But tears welled up in her eyes again. “But I don’t even know how to get there now. I always thought, maybe later, when mother and father are able to hire a hand...” 

“It would be very uncertain and potentially dangerous, too. Is that life really much more appealing to you than being a nice, well-off solicitor’s wife?” 

“Yes.” 

Annie studied her. Then she stood and said, brisk all of a sudden, “Then I suppose I’d better write to my cousin. She keeps a respectable boarding house in Southwark. I’m sure she would delay your first rent for a bit. I don’t remember - is a shilling enough for a third class ticket to London and some food?” 

With that, she took the money out of her apron and offered it to the flabbergasted Joanna. 

“But - you can’t -” 

“I can and I will.” 

Joanna stared at the money in her hand, barely able to believe it. “How can I ever thank you?” 

Annie smiled. “Write to me sometimes. I want to hear all about your adventures.” 

 

Nineteen

“More roses for you, Miss.”

By now, Joanna was starting to take the bouquets as her due. Three months ago, when she’d first been cast as a leading lady (fair Rosalind in ‘As You Like It’), she’d been so delighted she’d wanted to show them to everyone. Now she just smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr Mears. Backstage did a terrific job today, too - we actresses should send you at least half of our flowers. You deserve them.” 

The stagehand grinned back at her. “Ah, but Miss, you might have noticed that the male actors don’t get anything near the attention you do.” 

“Don’t let Mr Taylor hear you say that,” she chided, ignoring the insinuation. Her leading man didn’t appreciate any hints that others noticed his declining fame. “He gets plenty of adoring letters.” 

“That’s as may be,” he replied cryptically. “You going out today, Miss?” 

“Not today, no. I do need to sleep sometime, you know!” 

He looked at her critically. “Well, maybe some beauty sleep would do you good.” 

“Brute!” 

“Just saying.” He shrugged. “You’re not used to the pressure yet.” 

Because he had been kind to her from her first days at this theatre, she replied truthfully: “It’s a bit much yet. I don’t think I should get too used to it, anyway. Complacency isn’t the name of the game.” 

“Indeed it isn’t. Well, enjoy your evening then, Miss. Would you like me to escort you a bit?” 

“No, but thank you very much for your offer,” she smiled warmly at him, remembering him saying the same thing when she’d been younger and a thousand times more lost in this vast city. 

“Good night, Miss.” 

“Good night, Mr Mears.” 

Wearily, she turned back to the mirror. Her stage makeup was off already, and for once she needn’t re-apply her usual cream and rouge because she wasn’t going out with a patron. Now just to brush her hair… sometimes she envied men! They could just cut it short. But then, she mused, they never got to discover the fun of looking like a totally different person just by way of a different hairstyle. Ah, the good old days where everyone wore wigs… How droll they must have looked. 

Finally finished, she gathered her things. At least her slowness today had led to the stage entrance likely to be completely deserted by the time she made it outside.   
Except, in the end, there was someone standing there. A visitor to the theatre, going by his evening garb, and more than slightly drunk if the way he was leaning against the wall was anything to judge by.

The man leered at her. “Why, aren’t you a pretty one.” 

Joanna rolled her eyes. Why must men be such bores? Before coming here, she’d imagined gentle suitors leaving her roses and asking her out to ravishing dinners. Or at least some charming rogues, kissing her hand in public with a rakish grin and a flirtatious wink. But no, instead, so far she was only attracting _this_ kind. 

“Let me through, please.” 

He didn’t budge, just let his eyes drift offensively lower. 

Alright, then. She had sharp elbows and no compunctions about using them. 

To her surprise, he didn’t even try to touch her as she squeezed herself past him. Seconds later, when she’d relaxed, thinking the situation over, she knew why: His left arm sneaked around her waist from behind, the other hand gripping her shoulder. 

Joanna froze. 

Later, she would be mortified. Why didn’t she react immediately? She was a trained fencer, after all! But following the rules of a duel with her grandfather on a country farm in broad daylight was very different from fending off a man in a dark London alleyway, she was to learn. 

“Not so brave now, are you? Come here, sweetie…” 

He pulled her closer, and that did it. Joanna had gone so long without being molested here, much longer than most theatre girls, and she wasn’t about to change her record now. With instincts she hadn’t known she possessed she wrenched out of his grip, reversing it as she did and bending his fingers back. 

Something cracked. 

“You… you…” Some terms Joanna had never heard before, and quite a few she had, followed. 

“Touch me again and I will break a part rather closer to your heart, if you want to call it that.” Her voice didn’t sound like hers - it was confident and commanding. Cleopatra, maybe, or Titania. 

At that, he finally ran off, still calling her every name under the sun.

She stood, tall and victorious, and it felt better than any applause. 

 

Twenty-seven

“...so I sent the swine packing.” Lord Ashburton was fuming, and Joanna couldn’t fault him. 

“That was so rude of him, indeed! Alleging you cuckolded and in front of your wife, too!” The irony that he was discussing the incident with his own mistress was something they were both aware of and therefore needn’t be spoken out loud. 

“Damned impertinent! And it wasn’t just in front of my wife - she can handle herself - but Lady Jersey was there, too, and you know what a gossip she is.” 

Oh dear. The lady in question was more or less fondly but infinitely sarcastically nicknamed ‘The Silence’. 

“I can only hope it will die down soon, for the sake of the little babe,” she sighed. Poor children, always judged by the behaviour of their parents. And what did that have to do with the offspring, pray tell? Little Ingram wasn’t in the direct line of inheritance. Frankly, Joanna had seen worse society marriages than the Ashburton’s. At least they remained on friendly terms and were devoted to their children, parentage not questioned. 

As for herself, this arrangement suited her much better than a marriage, really. He was very generous, both in terms of his gifts (this flat, for example) and in not minding her continued acting career as many other rich “patrons” would have.

Still. He was here to release some stress, so she had work to do. 

Putting her hand close to his knee, she leant forward. “Now, Lord Ashburton - what do you propose to do with me?” 

He kissed her for a long moment. He wasn’t all that skilled at it for someone his age, but Joanna had had worse. Then he leant back and put his hand on hers. “Read to me?” he requested. 

Joanna nodded. “How about we continue with ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’? I’m not in the mood for the Russians.” 

“Neither am I. You know me so well,” he told her affectionately, sighing with contentment as he settled back into his armchair and prepared to listen. 

Joanna smiled, took the thin book from the table beside her, and began to read. 

 

When Lord Ashburton was gone (many hours later - whether he gave his family any explanations for these absences she’d never known), the first thing she did was call her maid to loosen her corset. Keeping a good figure and posture was of great importance, but Lord, couldn’t there be an easier way? 

She thought of her mother scolding her to sit up straight without the help of expensive ribbing and binding. If only she could decide whether her mother would approve of her life now or judge it… As for her father, she felt quite sure he would disapprove, but love her nonetheless. May they both rest in peace. 

The thoughts of her past life brought other memories with them, and Joanna hesitated. Then, after a moment, she moved over to her bedroom, sitting down at the small writing table she kept there. 

She selected her best writing paper and fountain pen, and began to write. 

_My dear Annie,_

_My new patron is a generous man. I finally have the means to invite you to London and repay you for your kindness. I wonder if you would recognize me! There is nothing of the country girl about me now. And yet I remember it so well still: The farm, the pigs, the parlour…_

_I suppose I should have stopped writing letters to you by now. I don’t believe in cutting yourself off from your emotions - that only leads to drink, and I know you would just hate that. But there is no reason to wallow in the past. I permitted myself a period of grieving, and that is over now. I trust that you rest in a better place now and are carefully watching over your family and friends, just as you always have._

_Speaking of your family: Your husband, bless his heart, has asked me to be a godmother to your youngest. God be with him - I think I will accept. A child could do worse than me for a godmother, I hope. I only wish you could have lived to see it._

_You were very kind to me and I will never forget it._

_Goodbye._

 

Thirty-three

Joanna’s first words after giving birth to her daughter were: “Well, let’s never do _that_ again.” 

The midwife tutted and chastised her for her unchristian sentiments (though she was kindhearted enough not to mention the lack of wedding ring on her finger, bless her) but she could see the young medical student that had been allowed to assist her, smile. He had even stopped taking turns between looking horrified and blushing by now. 

Since the midwife had left with her baby, Joanna entertained herself by asking him: “Enjoyed your first birth?” 

“It’s was very... interesting,” he replied, more evenly than she would have expected. “How about you, Miss?” 

“Can’t say I did,” she retorted. “I’m an actress, but even I can’t make that look like a pleasant time. Watching to learn something for your studies, are you? My advice is: If your patients ask you for something to numb the pain, they probably need it.” 

“Thank you, I will remember that.” 

 

She expected him to leave it at that, but he continued the conversation as if she had asked a real question. “Yes, I’m here to learn and, apparently, meet a woman it’s a pleasure of knowing. I do think,” he added meditatively, “you would win a swearing contest against every man in my regiment, and that’s saying something.” 

Charming boy. He was good-looking, too, all dark skin and curling hair, but frankly Joanna was covered in bodily fluid and bleeding out of places she very much didn’t want to get stitches for, thank you very much, so she wasn’t really receptive right now. Her “You’re a soldier?” came out more perfunctorily than flirtatious. 

“Training to be a surgeon for the army, Miss.” 

But in that moment, the midwife brought back her baby. “There she is, Miss, and a right hungry one, too!” 

Indeed, the poor little mite was crying. With some help from the midwife, Joanna guided her towards her breast, and after a moment, everyone was watching contently as baby Penelope happily received her first nourishment in this world. 

The next day, she didn’t feel the need to tell her maid that she wasn’t at home to any visitors. Lord Ashburton would prudently avoid her flat for a few more weeks (no need to tout the parentage, after all) and every other suitor had been turned off by her visible pregnancy. 

So she only had herself to blame when she had to hurriedly get herself presentable to greet a “gentleman in the parlour for you, Ma’am.” To her surprise, the medical student from yesterday was standing there.

“Good day, Miss Redmayne.” 

“Good day, Mr…?” 

Oh, that blush was cute. It hadn’t just been her pain-addled imagination. “Ah, didn’t I introduce myself yesterday? I’m John Watson.” 

“Good day, then, Mr Watson. Do sit down. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Ma’am. I’m sure I’m imposing on you enough as it is.” 

He was, but he was also cute. _Too young for you_ , she reminded herself. “Sit down anyway, or I’m going to get a crick in the neck, what with your height.” 

He smiled and did so. “If you insist. Is little Penelope well?” 

Joanna took her seat across from him. “Yes, she is sleeping soundly right now - a condition that I believe to not last long, if my friends’ warnings are to be believed.”

“Yes, I’m sure the coming months won’t be easy for you alone. If you need any help-”

She raised an eyebrow and interrupted him: “If you’re looking for easy target for an affair and thought you’d find it in an actress raising a child alone, I’ll have to commend you for your effort, but it won’t work.” 

“Of course not!” He looked scandalized. She even believed him. “You’re not easy at all - oh God, I’m definitely not expressing this right.” He looked at her earnestly. “I only wanted to ask if you’d like to - well, I don’t have the means other - other people have. But maybe you’d honour me with your company for tea some time?”

Huh. Joanna couldn’t help but liken him to a little puppy. She didn’t make the mistake to think him harmless - young men never were - but still, it was endearing. And what could be the harm? If he wanted to have his first infatuation in the big city be an older actress who would guide him through it - well, Joanna was well up to the task, and would enjoy herself while she was at it, too. 

“I’d like that.” 

His smile was big and bright, and though she was still exhausted and in pain, Joanna felt a bit better for it. 

 

Forty-five

The man she agreed to marry twelve years later barely had anything in common with that young student. 

John had been stationed in South Africa, in India and now in Afghanistan, but he’d always found his way back to her little parlour. He’d stopped blushing, which was such a pity. He’d also stopped laughing quite as much or smiling quite so carefreely, but he made Joanna’s days brighter with his presence nonetheless. 

Not that she would tell him that, even though (or because) he was proposing to her at this very minute. You’d think he’d have gotten tired of it. 

“Marry me, Joanna?” 

“John. You’re a handsome young man in your best years, and I’m a middle aged woman. You might think me still beautiful now, but what about in five years? Ten years? The gap will only widen.” 

“Well, accurately speaking, it won’t,” he corrected her drily. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

He shook his head. “I will never understand how you can be so confident and insecure at the same time.” 

“I see you haven’t met many actresses,” she remarked drily. “It is a professional affliction.” Beauty, after all, was just as much a currency as talent was in their business. 

“You’re beautiful and not too old for me, if that’s all that argument amounts to. And I’m clearly not too young for you or you wouldn’t even have allowed me to court you.” He looked triumphant at this conclusion. “Any more objections, your honour?” 

“I won’t be able to bear any more children.” 

“Having Penelope in my life will be more than enough for me.” 

“I haven’t done housework in over twenty years.” 

“Look, you needn’t leave your life behind, you know that. I’m not expecting you to. I love coming home to you.” 

She did consider that. Being a soldier’s wife was a hard lot, no doubt, but it would also offer some new experiences. Seeing India with John was an enticing prospect. Had he asked her to leave her own life behind, she wouldn’t be considering his proposal in earnest now. 

“Why marry me, then?” It wasn’t like they weren’t sleeping together, had been ever since he got over his little moral hangup about it. 

“I just want to.” 

Oh no. Why, just why had that man have to be so sincere? Honest people had always been Joanna’s great weakness. 

“What would you do if I actually accepted your proposal?” she heard herself say.

He blinked. “Well, I believe a kiss is traditional, as well as feeling overwhelming joy. And then I suppose I’d write to inform the army that they’d better cough up some better living quarters because my fiancée has standards. No - my sister would kill me. Kiss you, be very happy, write my sister and then the army.” 

She laughed. Even to her own ears it sounded helpless. 

_I don’t want to live without him_. It was a thought that had come more and more often during those years she’d known him. As always, it was followed by _So what of it? You marrying him won’t make him stay_. She’d seen too many loveless marriages for that, and had always believed herself better off - desired still, with not as much success anymore, but a grown woman with a good life and no one to tie her down. 

A new thought came. _But what if he doesn’t leave?_

What if they married, and she followed him to India or Afghanistan, or whatever place he was sent next, and they lived happily ever after? 

What if she didn’t let her own fear stand in her way any longer?

“I think - yes. That sounds fantastic,” she said, looking just as disbelieving as John at this turn of events. “If -,” she held up a hand to stem any reply in its beginnings, “If you promise to tell me when I start to embarrass you.” 

He had the cheek to roll his eyes at that! 

“Joanna. We will be old and wrinkly and barely able to move, and I will still love you.” 

John sounded so matter of fact when he said that. As if it was as much a certainty as the Thames rising with the tide or God looking out for them. 

Joanna smiled and kissed him, and willed herself to believe.

 

Forty-seven

Joanna was sweeping the floor for the third time that week. 

It wasn’t that the dust got in everywhere - though it did - or that they couldn’t afford any help - they had one local girl that was willing to help her twice a week for a pittance. Their house, if it could be called such, was small enough as it was. John, though a major-surgeon, didn’t have nearly as big an income as the officers who kept big houses with several servants. 

But their neighbourhood was good - all British soldiers with their families, all willing to overlook the fact that Joanna was quite a bit older than her husband. Though she’d have preferred to see a bit more of the actual country, at least she wasn’t alone in her waiting for a reassuring letter. And when their soldiers were home on leave, what gay parties everyone threw! Right out there on the verandas, sometimes, a thing of impossibility back in England. Even the thrice-damned mosquitoes couldn’t spoil such a night. 

Joanna could but pray that there would be any parties this time around. 

No. No, no, this was exactly the kind of thought she was trying to push away from her mind. 

Surely the few silver pieces John had inherited from his loving grandmother could use some polishing. They didn’t have much in the way of possessions, so she made sure to treat everything with the care it deserved. 

It turned that moving a cloth back and forth over a plate for minutes per spot served as a terrible distraction. Her thoughts kept turning back to the letters she hadn’t received this week. Usually John tried to send her a missive, be it ever so short, almost every day. 

There had been nothing for almost a week. News of a battle in the Kandahar had reached them yesterday. It didn’t sound good. Surely John was too busy caring for his fellow soldiers in the aftermath to write to her. 

For a moment, anger flared through her. What good was she, sitting here and waiting? She should be out there, helping John care for the wounded. One needn’t have surgical training for holding a screaming man down, and she would bet she had as much strength and courage as any of these men! 

But that sudden spark of life didn’t last long. To go out and search for him in the Afghan mountains would shame John in front of his comrades. Though he might not care, she would not do that to him. A soldier’s wife was the role she was playing, and a soldier’s wife waited for her husband to return from the war. 

Still. She couldn’t stand to be inside anymore. 

Out on the terrace it was stiflingly hot. Her brow turned sweaty, her long sleeves itchy, but one wouldn’t have known it looking at her. She looked serene, distant, but inside she was feeling colder than she ever had in her life. 

There was a British officer coming. The one no one on this street wanted to knock at their door. 

The one that brought those letters.

He came up to her. 

Joanna stared at him, unable to bring herself to greet him, but the man was clearly used to a silent welcome, for he just respectfully took off his cap and asked, “Are you, by any chance, Mrs John Watson?” 

“I am,” she heard herself say. She sounded proud. 

“I’m very sorry, Mrs Watson, to have to tell you that you husband has… passed on.”

“What happened?” she forced herself out. _Had he been in pain?_

“He was saving a fellow soldier, his commanding officer writes, Mrs Watson. He’ll recommend your husband for a medal and I shouldn’t wonder if his request is granted.” He must have seen her pleading look, because he quickly continued, “Major-Surgeon Watson was carrying the man out of the fray when a bullet hit his leg. Major artery, I’m afraid, but it was very quick.” 

_But was he in pain?_ She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry for her dear John, dying while saving another soul. 

She said nothing.

“Is there anyone I could fetch for you, Ma’am? You shouldn’t be alone.” 

“No, there’s… no one. No one else.”

“Oh.” Awkwardly, the officer held out the letter. “Here, Ma’am. You should keep it.” 

She took it with fingers that felt like ice even in the gloves, and he tactfully left. 

For a long moment, Joanna stood perfectly still and straight. Her mother would have been proud of her daughter’s bearing in this moment.

Then she walked back into the house she and John had loved and didn’t leave it for five whole days. 

 

Forty-eight

Her daughter was fifteen now and, for the first time in years, home from boarding school. Of course, John and her had taken out her ‘niece’ whenever they had visited England, but this was quite different. 

How lovely she was, and how very much like her father she looked. Selfishly, Joanna was glad for that. How she should have managed if it had been John’s eyes looking at her so guilelessly, she didn’t know. 

They were staying in her new London townhouse. It was spacious and full of modern amenities a lady couldn’t do without these days. Joanna had already begun recruiting servants, trying to reconnect with old friends and ordering bright and colorful dresses warm enough to withstand the bracing London winter. 

She missed India so much it hurt. 

Her new, or rather: returning, wealth had come as surprise to her. For all the friendship she had shared with Lord Ashburton (men, in her experience, tended to value friendship but couldn’t handle their female friends finding intimacy elsewhere), she hadn’t expected him to set up a more than generous trust for her and their daughter. They were set for life. 

If Penelope ever suspected the source of Joanna’s wealth or had doubts about her own parentage, she never gave it away. Joanna didn’t kid herself in that regard - girls of that age often noticed more than their parents wanted them to believe. Someday, the questions would come. 

Well, she would answer them when they came. 

The one conversation she wasn’t quite prepared for came on a rainy morning in December. They were sitting at breakfast, conversing about their plans for the day, when Penelope suddenly said, “You look better, auntie.” 

“Well, it’s so good to have your here,” she answered automatically. Then she paused. “Wait, better? Are you implying I looked terrible before? How rude of you.” 

Penelope giggled. “No. I doubt you would look terrible in a sack.”

Joanna put on her best ‘mannish rogue’ voice. “That’s quite a compliment coming from such a ravishing young woman.” Then she winked at her for good measure. 

It had the desired effect for a moment, but then Penelope gathered herself and said earnestly: “You just looked a bit down, that’s all. Not so happy. Was it because of Uncle John?” 

It had been a year since his death and still it didn’t bear thinking about for too long. 

“The anniversary of the battle has been rather getting me down,” Joanna admitted, “and that terrible weather certainly wasn’t helping! But I’m alright now. Thank you for worrying, dear.” 

“But you were really sad.” 

Moments like these it hit her just how young Penelope still was. She wanted to believe so badly that you could get over momentous events like that. And, Joanna decided in that moment, that was exactly what she was going to teach her. Her daughter didn’t need a middle-aged woman forever grieving over her husband as a role model. It was better not to get too tied up in men. 

So Joanna kept her voice light as she replied, “Life goes on.” (Somehow. It just had to. She would make it so.)

“Will you marry again?” 

“Never.” It came out more sharply than she had intended, so she tried to soften it by adding, “John was an exceptional man and I was glad to be married to him. But it’s nice to be my own woman, too. I doubt I shall be able to give that up again.” 

And that, she thought, really showed those critics that had smeared her talent by emphasizing her beauty! These sentences came out evenly, not too light, not too earnest. 

Penelope bought it, too, because she laughed and said charmingly, “Well, it allows me to stay here more often, so though I miss him, too, I’m glad you aren’t occupied with a new husband.” 

Suddenly, there were tears in Joanna’s eyes. She hid them by embracing her daughter tenderly. “So am I, my dear.” 

 

Fifty-three

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, auntie.” 

Joanna couldn’t resist hugging her daughter one last time. “Have a safe trip, my dear, and greet Paris for me. And have some fun while you’re there!”

Penelope groaned. “I’m going there to study.” 

“And I’m sure you will do that very well.” Joanna stole a quick kiss on her brow. “I just don’t want you to feel bad if you get distracted now and then.” 

“I won’t. And I will write to you,” Penelope promised. 

“Please do. Now go, or you’ll miss your train!” 

With a last wave, Penelope hurried to the waiting cab. Joanna stood in the entrance until it left her sight. As she turned and walked back to her room, she shook her head. The opportunities for girls these days! In her days, girls of Penelope’s age wouldn’t have dreamt of someday studying medicine. Of course, they still couldn’t do that in England. And yet, Penelope was off, studying to be a doctor at the Sorbonne, walking in John’s footsteps. 

And quite what, Joanna wondered as she sat down, was she herself going to do now? She was too old to get back on stage, and anyway, she wouldn’t do that to her ‘niece’’s reputation. 

In fact, she was now fully a woman of leisure, with nothing to do and no one to care for. 

Mr Mears interrupted her thoughts by knocking carefully on the half-open door. He must have guessed her state of mind, for he usually saw no need to do so. 

She sat up straight and her voice was firm when she called, “Yes, come in.”

“A letter for you,” he said, handing it to her. “Special missive from Lord Ingram Ashburton.”

Well, that was a surprise. She hadn’t even been sure he knew she existed, he’d been so good at ignoring her until now. What would it be? Threats? Pleas not to besmirch the family honour? 

Unable to keep from it any longer, she cut the envelope open and unfolded the paper within. 

_Dear Mrs Watson,_

_I hope this letter does not startle you too much. I assure you I have no intention to interfere with my father’s arrangement with you. He has described you as a kind woman. I am, I admit, banking on that, for I have written to ask you for your help_

_An old friend of mine, Miss Charlotte Holmes, has gotten herself into a predicament that I trust is known to you by now. Rather than be locked away in the country, she has run away. However, a gentlewoman is ill equipped to deal with London’s professional class, so I worry for her safety and well-being._

_I can only assure you that she is better than her reputation paints her to be and apart from one decision, very intelligent and a loyal friend. If you could see yourself extending a helpful hand to her, I would consider myself deeply in your debt._

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Ingram Ashburton_

Now, what in God’s name did that mean?

Lord Ashburton had been her patron, still was, in a way, but she didn’t owe his family anything. She didn’t know what to make of his son, either - a proud boy with a marriage that had taken a dramatic turn towards coldness soon after the honeymoon. A good father, maybe. 

And yet that proud man asked his father’s past mistress to assist a young woman who could not have fallen lower in society’s eyes. The letter was positively emotional, too. He was obviously trying to push her every button. That line about not wanting to be locked away in the country was rather clever. 

The cheek of him! And yet, she conceded, she was interested. Joanna had heard of Charlotte Holmes’ little tryst, of course. Privately she had considered it a puzzling move - the girl had had quite good marriage prospects and even London’s top gossips couldn’t figure out why’d she’d chosen Roger Shrewsbury of all people. Joanna had seen her at the opera once before - she looked like an angel. But what was Lord Ingram’s part in all of this? And what, exactly, was he expecting Joanna to do?

Then she realized that she hadn’t thought of John or her daughter for the past half-hour, so deep was her concentration on this problem. 

Her decision made, she looked around. If she wanted to hire an intelligent girl for a companion, she had some redecorating to do. 

 

Fifty-four

On evenings like these, it felt like Charlotte had been living with her for decades instead of barely a year. They had successfully prevented a bank robbery today, and Joanna herself had assisted the police in taking the brutes down. ‘Red-headed League’, indeed! 

Now, Charlotte was bent over some peculiar drawings that Mr Hilton Cubitt from Norfolk had sent her. Apparently, his wife was very upset upon finding these childish scrawlings and he suspected them to be a secret code. 

Joanna settled down in her own armchair, a cup of tea by her side, and relaxed. Livia had send her her first manuscript a few days ago, concerning Charlotte’s very first adventure. Apparently she thought Joanna would make a better test audience than her sister. She was probably right. 

Fully expecting a story full of adventure and romance, the kind her childhood self would have loved (and her adult self still did, just more circumspectly), she turned the first page. 

And stared. 

The title read: _Part One: Study in Scarlet Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department_

Almost not believing her eyes, Joanna began reading the first chapter: 

_In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties._

Tears were gathering in her eyes, but Joanna led them drip down onto the paper without bothering to wipe them away. In fact, she didn’t stop reading until Charlotte’s hands closed over hers. 

“Joanna?” 

She couldn’t bring herself to look up, not yet, not when she was so full of feelings.

“It’s just -” she tried to explain, knowing her words would never be adequate, “it feels like finally, other people _know_ him. Not just me, always remembering…” 

“Livia captured him well then. Good. She put a lot of effort into the research.” 

That, of course, only made Joanna cry harder. She did force herself to look at Charlotte’s steady gaze as she said, “Thank you. Thank you both.”

“Of course. You are family,” Charlotte responded matter-of-factly. 

Joanna tried to smile. 

Her efforts couldn’t have been very successful, because Charlotte frowned. “Maybe I should have said this before. My own mother is very inadequate at being maternal. You have more than filled that void. I fully consider you family.” 

Joanna couldn’t help it - she had to hug her for that. To her surprise, Charlotte too clutched her close. 

A daughter, huh? A young woman who had come to her at the age of twenty-five. An addition to a family that consisted of her (other) daughter who believed she was her niece, a few servants with colorful pasts and an elderly Lord that had apparently told his family about his favourite mistress. Maybe, in the future, they could add Livia and Bernadine, too. 

Surely, somehow, somewhere, John, Annie and her parents were proud of her. 

Then, because Charlotte never could stand emotional moments that actually involved her for too long, she said: “Anyway, we should pack and retire. We need to go to Norfolk by the earliest train tomorrow. That woman is in grave danger.” 

It certainly wasn’t where Joanna had thought she would end up, more than fifty years ago. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “Let’s do that.” 

But she wouldn’t trade it for the world.


End file.
